


Returning Toward Shelter

by Gileonnen



Series: The Blade of the Vanguard [3]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Failing to Get Over One's Ex, M/M, Mention of Collaring Kink, Sexual Fantasies and Nightmares, Sexual Shame, Showering as Meditative Act, Unexpected Midnight Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23311750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: Kalith dreams of surrendering to familiar hands.
Relationships: Guardian/The Spider (past), Guardian/Zavala (prospective)
Series: The Blade of the Vanguard [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671325
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	Returning Toward Shelter

Kalith dreams of surrendering to familiar hands.

Long claws comb through his hair; it sifts like silk across his cheeks, his throat, his bare shoulders. He tilts his head back against the broad expanse of the Spider's chest and feels two sure hands sweep over him from ribs to hips, trailing sparks of pleasure in their wake. Claws trace the crown of his cock, circle and knead at his nipples until the slightest touch makes him ache. The Spider presses his fingertips to Kalith's lips, and he opens with a cry to swallow them down.

 _Be still, little morsel,_ the Spider whispers against his ear. His breath is a cold rush of ether, a promise of a hundred jagged teeth.

 _Please, Master,_ Kalith thinks desperately as the Spider heaves him up to his knees. Tears stream down his face, but still he takes the Spider deeper into his throat. _Please, please, I've been so good--_

\--and then he sinks down on the slick glorious pillar of the Spider's cock, and pain and ecstasy rise in him like a relentless tide. Kalith can't help rolling his hips down to take in more of him, spearing himself on that enormous cock until it feels as though it should pierce him through the heart. He wants this more than anything: to be split open, broken, used until he is used up.

 _You see, my elegant friend,_ the Spider croons, trailing wet fingers down to hook in Kalith's collar, _I always knew you would come back._

Kalith snaps awake, drenched in sweat and achingly hard.

His hands fly to his throat--but of course, his collar is long gone. He flings off his blankets and sits up on the edge of his bed, pressing his feet flat against the cold tile floor.

He still feels the echo of the Spider's hands on him, so keenly that his skin prickles, and it fills him with shame and arousal in equal measure. His body still craves the surety of that touch.

If Kalith went back to the Spider now, he thinks, he would be welcomed back into his arms. He would be cosseted and caressed, stripped bare and gilded again with the Spider's sigil. He would be told that he is forgiven.

He doesn't want to be forgiven. What he did was right.

Kalith heaves himself up from the bed and paces the floor of his Guardian dormitory--the reinforced cot bed to the kitchenette to the door of the tiny bathroom. He wishes there were someone he could call: _Need you inside me. Come as soon as you can._ He could tape a sign to his door, if he were desperate; there's a certain appeal to getting thrown down by a stranger and fucked until he forgets his own name.

That isn't what he wants, though. More than getting fucked, he misses the familiarity of the Spider's hands on him. The feeling that he knew his place in the world.

He rakes a hand back through his hair and steps into the shower, letting the water strike sharp and cold at his chest until it runs warm at last. 

He could call Zavala. A part of him knows that, if he pulled Zavala close by the hand and kissed down the arch of his neck, Zavala would let him go further. Maybe he'd catch Kalith around the waist, sure and solemn and undeniable, and drink a kiss from his lips. Maybe he'd open under Kalith like a barricade crumbling, desperate to set the myth aside and be touched for once as a man. If Zavala let him, Kalith would sink to his knees before him and let his tongue show his devotion.

Zavala deserves better than being summoned to drive out the Spider's shadow.

Kalith works shampoo through his hair, roots down to tips. It cracks against his shoulders like wet ropes--nothing like the decadent luxury of his dream. Some mad impulse makes him want to cut it all off, hack away those phantom touches and the lingering pleasure of them, but the thought fades as he rinses himself clean.

Conditioner next. Then soap, everywhere; throat and ribs and the insides of his thighs. He tries to focus on the ritual of the touch, the heat of the water, the way the soap slides across his skin. It's hard to remember to separate the sensual and the sexual, as his palms work over the shallow valleys of his loins. Gratification has always come easily to him. He still aches for repletion.

Clean at last, Kalith turns off the water and wrings himself dry. He wraps up his hair in a towel and sits at the edge of the bed again, feeling the heat rise and dissipate from his skin.

He closes his eyes and lets his consciousness drift. Traces the room around him from memory: the pierced-copper lanterns by the window. The writing desk where Pelagia lies recompiling atop a tiny pillow. The tiles patterned with interlocking hexagons, marigold and copper and blue. They aren't home, exactly, but they're familiar. They anchor him.

Slowly, his breathing deepens. His limbs feel heavy and lax. All around him, the life of the City goes on: Guardians swapping stories in the courtyard below, a half-familiar song playing in another room. The wind sighing through the trees beneath his window, shaking the cedar boughs.

He lies back and drags the blankets over himself, pulling up a communicator peripheral so that he doesn't have to disturb Pelagia's rest. Zavala's low-priority line is always open. It would be easy to call him.

There are so many things he wants to say, and he sketches each one out with his fingertips. _Next time I see you, I'd like to rest my head in your lap while you read me ghazals._ Or _I miss how your hand feels in mine._ Or even _Thinking of you; when you're free, I'd like to see you again._

Or _I need you inside me. Come as soon as you can._

In the end, Kalith only sets down the communicator beside his bed and lets himself drift into dreamless sleep.


End file.
